


You Bring the Rain

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/2489386.html?thread=27585322#t27585322"> Make me a Monday</a>. Mycroft and Lestrade in the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Bring the Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Ты принес с собою дождь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/724473) by [Aralle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aralle/pseuds/Aralle)



In fairness, most of the blood doesn't belong to you. Most of it actually belonged to your assailant. Stab vests are a wonderful invention, you think as the paramedic binds the nasty slice across the palm of your hand. It is just enough of a wound to make typing, writing, eating, drinking, everything, really, difficult, of course.

As you watch Sherlock and John, his ever-present shadow, stride past Donovan and off to their ritual Chinese dinner you see a black car roar up to the cordon. The door opens almost before the car stops and as the heavens open, and the rain comes bucketing down, Mycroft hurls himself from the back.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sherlock stop and glare at his brother.

But Mycroft doesn't seem to notice. He ducks under the caution tape and is walking toward you. Running, almost. If a man like Mycroft ever actually ran. Which he doesn't. But you can read the urgency in his gait, and you that Sherlock can too.

You rise and go to meet him half way. The rain is sheeting down, making your shirt cling to you as you limp across the car park. Everything hurts, but it doesn’t' matter - what matters is seeing _him_.

"Gregory," Mycroft's voice nearly breaks you practically collide beneath his umbrella. "Gregory," he whispers. "I heard… I thought…"

He's so close you can feel him trembling and something your gut clenches. You've seen him undone before – in his bed, in the dark – in the privacy of his room – but never in public. Never with the world watching. You find a smile and hold up your hand.

"Not mine," you say. "Most of it, anyway."

Mycroft takes your hand in his and turns it over, pressing his lips to the bandage and pressing the injured palm to his cheek.

"You must understand," he says as you draw impossibly closer to him, wrapping your free arm around his waist as bends his head to yours. "You must understand that there are times when I find myself fearing for you."

You bring your mouth to his, feel the dampness of his cheeks – from the rain – you think. His arm is around you, pressing the two of you together as his mouth opens against yours.

He tastes of tea.

His tongue is warm in your mouth, tentative at first – he always is – as if unsure of his welcome. Which is ridiculous because Sherlock once described him as "the most dangerous man you'll ever meet" and he's right, damn him. But when Mycroft is kissing you, and especially when he's kissing you right now, he is ever cautious, ever careful.

Adrenalin is still coursing through your body and you respond to Mycroft's tentative caress by attacking his mouth, your injured hand still pressed to his cheek as you suck on his tongue, causing him to stiffen and moan.

The sound goes straight to your groin. You press your advantage, stroking his tongue with your own, pulling back and biting his lip gently, soothing the bite with your caress.

The cough behind you is pointed.

"Do you two _mind_?" An all too familiar voice asks.

Mycroft doesn't break the kiss, merely pulls his hand away from your side and motions to Sherlock. At least that's what you _assume_ he's doing, because your eyes are closed as you savor the taste, the smell, the feel of him.

He breaks away as Sherlock's footsteps recede and leans his forehead against yours.

"Your safety," he begins…

"Yeah…" you cut him off, not wanting to start an argument now, in the rain, with half of your team pretending not to stare. The other half is, predictably, staring openly.

"I'm done here," you mutter. "And it's raining. If you hadn't noticed. Can we… the car?" You gesture.

"Of course," Mycroft agrees as, with his arm still around you, he guides you to the waiting car.

* * *

Anthea is not in the back seat, you notice as you slide in.

"She is taking the evening off," Mycroft explains, slipping in beside you. "Now, Gregory, I feel that we must discuss…"

Whatever it is he wants to talk about is definitely _not_ what you had in mind and you turn to him.

"Look, Mycroft, I don't…" Fuck it, you decide. This isn't the sort of thing you can solve with words.  
You notice that there are smears of blood on Mycroft's face from where he had your hand pressed to his cheek. The car starts and rolls sedately away. You glance to the glass that separates the two of you from the driver. You know that he (or she – on occasion it has even been Anthea) cannot hear the two of you. Still, it makes you pause. If only for a moment.

"Mycroft…" you begin again. "Look…"

But suddenly there are no words, only the soft pressure of his lips on yours, the flick of his tongue against your lips. You open your mouth, inviting him in.

"I know," he says between kisses. "Your job is dangerous."

Another kiss, a bite, a suck, a lick.

"And that your position comes with risks."

His hand moves to your neck and chin, his lips follow.

"And those associated risks include violence to your person."

His mouth is on your neck, his hands struggling with the wet cloth of your shirt that clings to you like second skin.

"But Gregory…"

He pushes the shirt away, his lips and tongue laving your neck. His hands drop to your belt, loosening the leather, tugging on your vest. Suddenly he is on his knees in the tight space of the back of the car. It flashes across your mind that you should be glad the British Government uses vehicles that come equipped with so much legroom in the back seat.

Your head sags back against the seat of the car as he unbuttons your trousers and unzips your fly.

"You must understand that your person is very, _very_ important to me."

Mycroft is stroking you and you being to grow hard beneath his caress.

"Very important."

And his mouth is on your cock and your vision goes white. His mouth is hot and wet and greedy as he sucks you to full hardness. Your hands drop to his shoulders and you groan.

"Yes, Gregory," Mycroft murmurs around your cock, the vibration of his voice going straight to your balls.

You gasp as he sucks you, takes you deeply into his mouth, laves your hardness with his tongue, teases you with his teeth and hands.

"Mycroft…" You feel your orgasm building in the heat of his mouth as his hands find your balls, squeezing ever so gently. "Mycroft!" you cry in your urgency.

He moans around your cock and the world shudders and stops and you cry out, emptying yourself into his mouth.

He holds you. Hands through which half of the decisions of Her Majesty's Government flow wrap around your hips as he holds you in his mouth as you subside. He swallows gently and pulls away, tucking your still sensitive cock into your pants and zipping your trousers.

The car comes to a gentle halt.

"We're home, brave knight," Mycroft murmurs, rising to sit beside you.

The car door opens and Mycroft helps you out, his arms around you as he guides you up the stairs to his front door.

If the driver notices your undone shirt, your mussed hair, your bemused expression, he says nothing.

You notice as you lean against Mycroft, supported by his comforting weight as he unlocks the door, that the rain has stopped and a gentle spring breeze is blowing through the streets, bringing the promise of more rain.

* * *

In the stillness of the night, as Mycroft moves within you, you are hard again, feeling his breath, hot upon your shoulder, his hands cradling your head, his cock, sliding inside of you – a reversal from your usual positions – you feel the breeze again through the open window.

In the stillness of the night as you come again and hear his shuddering moan as he stiffens and jerks within you, you gasp as cool air assaults your skin.

In the stillness of the night as you drift off, Mycroft's arm draped over your body, cleaned and caressed by his gentle hands, you dimly hear the rain begin again.

A peace you have not felt in ages steals over you.

And you sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, no money. Special thanks to Bluestocking79 who, as always, saves my fic from certain disaster.


End file.
